


too soft a touch for you

by sandpapersnowman



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dubious Consent, M/M, Other, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 00:24:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18905716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandpapersnowman/pseuds/sandpapersnowman
Summary: Michael appears in Jon’s office just as suddenly as the last time. He'sbeautiful, obviously, blonde and pretty and cherub-faced like a painting, but something about him makes your stomach turn if you look at him too long.The most offputting thing, though, is how he's slowly moved to hover over Jon withsuchcarefulness.





	too soft a touch for you

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from the wombats' [The English Summer](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/wombats/theenglishsummer.html)
> 
> jon/martin broke into my home but jon/michael, a premium monsterfucker pairing, has always been in my home

Michael appears in Jon’s office just as suddenly as the last time.

“What do you want?”

Michael only smiles at him. 

He’s offputting. He's _beautiful_ , obviously, blonde and pretty and cherub-faced like a painting, but something about him makes your stomach turn if you look at him too long.

His hands begin to look wrong once you notice them, and that's offputting. His hair is too perfect and falls in those pretty ringlets, but if you look too closely you start to notice how they don't curl in ways that are actually _possible_ , with no ends or beginnings.

The most offputting thing, though, is how he's slowly moved to hover over Jon with _such_ carefulness.

"What do you want?" Jon asks again. He is determined not to let Michael get to him, one way or the other, but he knows color is rising in his cheeks just because of how close he's come.

One of those otherworldly giggles echoing-but-not echoes in Jon's office.

"Would you like to guess, Archivist?" he asks.

He's close enough for Jon to taste his breath. He expects something terrible, the smell of rot or decay to boil up and make him retch, but to his surprise, Michael's breath smells... Nice. Something citrus-y, orange, cut with a toothache-sweet smell like heavily artificial cake frosting. It takes his guard down, truthfully, and for a moment, Jon isn't afraid.

Within the same moment, as though he can sense it, Michael cranes his head down to Jon's face, and...

...Kisses him.

Jon's still not sure what Michael is, but he's starting to wonder if he's one of those creatures that lures men to their deaths. Michael's mouth makes his blood go neon; he doesn't mean to make a soft, wanting noise, but his skin is crawling with sourceless pleasure and it’s the only outlet he can manage.

Michael presses closer, one long leg pinning between Jon's, and the heat in his gut supernovas with more contact. He makes an attempt at pulling away, which is to say something practically _feral_ in him refuses to when he considers it.

"Everything alright, Archivist?" Michael asks. He pulls back to allow Jon to breathe, breaking the kiss but keeping his leg and by extension his body flush to him. "You're going to alarm your assistants with all that noise." 

Jon swallows. With some of his higher brain functions back, he realizes he'd been whining, nearly _weeping_ in the glow of it, the sounds coming from him entirely out of his control.

"Stop," Jon says weakly. He doesn't want to, _really_ doesn't want to, for some reason, but he can't draw his coworkers toward this. How would they even react to finding Jon there, tangled with something inhuman and begging for more?

"It's a lot to take, I know," Michael agrees. "But I think if any human were to stand it, it'd be you," he purrs.

There's another soft kiss, just a peck, and a wave of fireworks crackles up through him again.

"What does that mean?"

"You're not supposed to touch us," Michael sighs. "Humans are, generally, not capable of the overstimulation."

Something that may or may not be a tongue, or may or may not be something _pretending_ to be a tongue, slides over Jon's mouth, and there's another nearly unbearable shock of feeling to his system. His legs are shaking like he's going to collapse any moment, but somehow he trusts Michael not to let him fall.

"That doesn't make sense," Jon says dumbly. It might make sense later, once he's not feeling half fucked-out from being kissed by something that's not human, but in the moment, his brain won't let him think past _again, please, God, again_. 'Good' isn't the word, because it's nearly painful every time Michael makes contact, but despite that he doesn’t want it to stop.

"Apologies," Michael smirks. 

He leans in to continue kissing Jon, and rather than turning away, or flinching, or trying to stop him, Jon stands on his toes and tries to meet him halfway.

Jon grabs at him, plunging a hand into Michael's curly hair to bring him closer and using the other to yank Michael's hips forward against his. His entire body is screaming for Michael to continue and praying for him to stop, and it's so crushing he doesn't know if he's closer to vomiting, loss of consciousness, or release. Some needy thought in the back of his mind swears he'll be alright with Michael whichever way it goes.

"Please," someone whimpers. Probably him, of course, but the begging sounds like a stranger in the room for all Jon has control over it. " _Please_ ," they gasp again.

Whoever they are, they've got the right idea.

Michael seems to comply, snaking two hands under Jon's thighs and hiking him up his leg to bring their hips together better. He realizes suddenly that hasn’t been touching the ground, his weight fully supported on Michael's pressing thigh. How long has he been like that? How didn't he notice?

Michael's unnaturally pleasant tongue shoves further against his own. He supposes he could be hit by a train right about now and he wouldn't notice.

Jon holds onto Michael for dear life as he grinds Jon down, easily manipulating his weight to send thrills of a more comprehendable pleasure through him. There's still the electric, ethereal over-current nearly deafening it all, but the pressure and friction over his cock are like the string at the end of a balloon, barely keeping him tethered as he floats but still _there_.

"Michael," he shudders — the begging stranger in the room must be him if it's nobody else, so he may as well own up to it. “Please —”

"You've taken so much, Archivist, haven't you?" that soft voice asks. "Go on. Show me how you look undone."

It's not the gentle voice over his mouth that does him in, or the words it says. _Archivist_ , it purrs, like an endearment or an insult, or both, _cum for me, make a mess of yourself,_ it implies, its tone unmistakable.

It's not any single thing, it's _all_ of it, every red hot point of contact and the phantoms of Michael's words haunting the silence and the indescribable taste on his tongue seem to all implode. He sees stars, sobbing out a noise into Michael's mouth. An ache he didn't know he had is somehow eased, making room for a new ache that he's sure won't go away until — unless — Michael chooses to do this again.

The world keeps swimming as Michael carefully lays Jon out over his office desk. It remains hazy and liquid until Michael finally separates from him entirely, and Jon’s vision and balance seem to snap back into place.

Every inch of him hurts. Like every muscle pulled, like every bone broken. Under that, though, is the _adrenaline_ , the oxytocin, the billion feel-good chemicals his body is frantically producing in the wake of... Whatever Michael's just _done to_ him.

"Jesus Christ," Jon mutters. He'd throw a hand over his face in humiliation, or defeat, or _something_ , if only he could _move_.

"How do you feel?" Michael asks, lowering his face to speak against Jon's cheek.

"Not sure," Jon admits. "Tired."

Michael seems to nod to himself.

"Noted." 

There's a kiss to his cheek that brings a dull thud of his earlier reaction, that same sick wave of heat but muffled in his exhaustion, and Jon finds himself leaning into it.

"We'll see you soon, Archivist." 

The words are spoken with fondness against his skin, and then he’s alone in his office again.

**Author's Note:**

> supplemental: i'm on tumblr [here](sandpapersnowman.tumblr.com), please come yell with me about this podcast. i'm only at episode 50ish but i'm Living


End file.
